Solitary Silence
by It's-Teatime-Somewhere
Summary: John has a hard time dealing with Sherlock's fall. How does he cope? And what happens when sherlock returns? Very dark/angsty.


_A/N: Here is a VERY short and VERY depressing story :) Warnings for character death. Don't own anything. Enjoy! _

_"Nobody lives forever,"_ you think bitterly as you walk-well, more like limp-up the dark stairs into the gloomy flat. It has been two painful months since 'the incident' and you know you will never feel whole again, no matter how many times you tell people you are alright. When he fell, your heart fell with him.

You shake your head out of the past, focusing on the room in front of you. You haven't been in the cluttered flat since the day your life ended. You had taken to a small, empty flat on the other side of London, away from the torment and memories. The flat was just as you had left it, right down to the British army-issued Browning L9A1 sitting on the coffee table.

That is the reason you are there. The sleek, grey gun is your escape from the life-if you would even call it that-which you have been sentenced to, like a prisoner with no hope for parole. But you have an escape. You have a choice. And you will make it. You walk as if in a trance, moving around the piles of books and papers. Your mind begins to wander. _"How easy it will be. How nice. How simple."_ A brief thought of pain flashes past. Will you feel the pain? Did _he_ feel any pain during the few seconds it took him to fall? Well, any pain is better than this.

You pick up the Browning, noticing how your hand is still. _"Post-traumatic stress" _you think, _"has __**nothing**__ on a broken heart."_ You twist your hand, touching the cold, metal barrel to the side of your head. Your heart begins to race, and you feel the high that you will always associate with chasing criminals around London. Your head begins to thump from a rush of blood. You think you hear a door open behind you, but you pay no attention. You are focused on the task at hand.

"John..." you hear a whisper, like wind passing through. The wind is familiar-his voice. You smile in spite of yourself. Not long now until that hallucinated voice you thought you heard will be a reality. A hand touches your shoulder, but it is just part of the dream. _"Well,"_ you think, _"now or never."_ Your finger slowly arches back and pulls the trigger. You think you hear a scream-a heart wrenching, terrible, scream-but the blackness engulfs you. Silence and peace have fallen around you, and you feel the solitary silence surround you.

.oOOo.

He's running. Running and running and running. His heart is filled with joy. It's done. All of them dead. Now he can return. He walks through the familiar door, the memories of all of the wonderful times sweep through him, filling him with warmth. The smile threatens to crack his face. Yet that same smile is wiped off at the sight when he enters the sitting room.

There is a figure, seated on the couch, his head barely peaking over. The beautiful sandy hair was marred by the ugly gun pressed against it.

"John..." He whispers, his heart slowly breaking. But he wouldn't do it, right? Yes. See? He's smiling. The cheeks turn up into the smile he knows so well, but the gun stays in place. Moving cautiously, he walks forward, the feelings threatening to overwhelm him. He places a gentle hand on the broad shoulder, hoping the touch would make him put down the gun.

But he heard a sigh, feels the tension leave the shoulder, hears a bang and feels the body fall. The now-lifeless form of the only person he had ever loved.

His world stops. It sways and begins to break down around him, crumbling into pieces. He moves like a broken clock around the couch. His arms grasp the limp body, pulling it close. He cares not about the blood that soaks the clothes, mixing with the waterfall of tears cascading over him. His breath hitches and his vision blurs. He hears nothing but a mantra that is running a million kilometers an hour through his sluggish mind: _my fault. My fault, all my fault. My fault._

He feels nothing. His body is numb. He hugs the dead man so their bodies are flush against each other, as if somehow he can transfer his own now-useless life ingot the body of the man who deserves it so much more.

A plethora of people push their way into his line of vision. They seem to gasp at the sight and he notices their mouths moving, probably offering condolences. But he doesn't want their consolation. He wants a love that will never return, and a solitary silence to deal with the pain.


End file.
